


(out of sight when it’s) easy

by fillory



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blindfolds, Drabble, Established Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:17:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9533465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fillory/pseuds/fillory
Summary: “Now,” Graves says, sounding far away. Credence struggles to pinpoint his location from his voice. He could be anywhere: by the window, by the door, one foot into the foyer. He could leave Credence sitting here blindfolded, and Credence wouldn’t even know he had left.“What shall I do with you?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trashprinxe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashprinxe/gifts).



>   
>  **Disclaimers:**  
>    
>  I read Credence in canon as an adult; this fic is not intended to be underage (which is why I didn’t tag it). I am not Rowling, I’m not affiliated with Rowling, this is a transformative work, _yada yada_. Hi, Ezra.
> 
> Title is from “Easy (Switch Screens)” by Son Lux.

“I want to try something,” Graves murmurs. 

Credence nods, not moving from where he sits poised on the edge of the hotel bed. Graves stands in front of him looking more unkempt than Credence would have imagined possible, his coat draped carelessly over a chair, his tie half undone. 

Credence can just see a triangle of Graves’ skin, pale, in the hollow of his throat where his shirt is unbuttoned. His hands are bare. His feet are bare as well, Oxfords left unlaced somewhere by the door to their suite. His gaze is dark and heavy; Credence feels it like an itch on his bowed shoulders. He tries not to squirm. 

“Close your eyes,” Graves says. 

Credence closes his eyes. 

* * *

Graves’ necktie is soft, and blocks out all light from the room. Credence knows what it is because of its weight _(heavy, expensive silk)_ and because of the way it smells, still, of Graves’ aftershave. He had to wrap the tie around Credence’s eyes twice to get it to stay. (Graves was so close. Credence kept so still as he tied the blindfold—like a gift—and he thought, perhaps, that Graves was pleased. He let his fingers trail along Credence’s jaw once he was done, down his throat, past his Adam’s apple, and Credence _leaned in…_ and the touch was gone.) 

Credence exhales. The room is silent but for his breath. 

“Now,” Graves says, sounding far away. Credence struggles to pinpoint his location from his voice. He could be anywhere: by the window, by the door, one foot into the foyer. He could leave Credence sitting here blindfolded, and Credence wouldn’t even know he had left. “What shall I do with you?” 

_Everything,_ Credence wants to plead—but he stays silent. His answer isn’t necessary. Isn’t wanted. Graves will do whatever he likes—and Credence will love it. 

He starts by pressing Credence back until he’s spread indulgently over the sateen bedsheets. Credence can feel his shirt riding up; the sheets are butter-smooth and cool against his lower back. He links his hands above his head and slowly lets his legs fall open. 

He waits for several tense minutes, fingers clenching and unclenching at nothing, before another touch comes: Graves’ mouth, hot against his throat. His hair—unslick for perhaps the first time in their relationship, courtesy of an overnight stay and no one to intimidate—tickles the underside of Credence’s jaw. Credence shivers. Graves lingers there in an openmouthed kiss—Credence can’t tell if the warmth suffusing his neck and chest is blush, or fog from Graves’ wet breaths—then bites down _hard_ on Credence’s pulse. 

Credence arches off the bed. His hips meet only air, frustratingly intangible. He groans. 

Graves worries the skin of his throat with his teeth for a few long moments, then releases him to blow cool air over the spot. Credence can feel gooseflesh break out on his neck, across his forearms. He trembles. He wants to push up into the touch. He wants Graves to bite down again, draw blood. He wants Graves to swallow him whole. 

Graves disappears once more. 

* * *

A murmured word, and Credence feels the buttons of his shirt undoing themselves. The cloth rasps softly against his heated skin; he is left bare to the cool open air of the bedroom. Credence wonders how he must look—hair mussed, eyes covered, legs spread indecently wide, thin chest framed by worn white cotton. The bite on his neck felt hard enough to bruise; he imagines that, too, blooming violet by tomorrow morning. 

He probably looks like a whore. 

The idea is strangely exciting. 

From there, things progress into a series of moments Credence will remember later as vivid, disjointed fragments: 

_Fingertips trail up his bare arms, lingering at the tender crook of his elbow— the hot press of Graves’ weight pinning him to the mattress, their bodies finally aligning chest-to-thigh— Credence caught, and helpless, and reveling in it— Graves’ hardness lined up against his own—_

_His fingers in Graves’ mouth, a hot-wet suction that has Credence moaning and bucking his hips— Graves kissing down Credence’s neck, over his chest, down to his navel— a callused thumb, warm over his nipple, the thumbnail dragging—_

_Credence’s hands reaching unconsciously to tangle in Graves’ hair— the scent of Graves’ rich aftershave mingled with the dark roast they’d shared after supper—_

_Graves catching both his wrists in one broad hand, holding them firmly to the mattress above Credence’s head—_

And finally—finally—Graves presses his palm down between Credence’s legs, over his boxer shorts, and allows him to rock his hips up, once, twice, _again—_ and Credence is coming with a sharp cry. He turns his face helplessly into the mattress as his thighs tremble with it; he thanks the Lord that he doesn’t have to see how red he must be. The blindfold is a reassuring weight atop his eyes. 

Hands smooth gently over his face, over his lips. Credence lets himself drift, strings cut, and is only distantly aware of Graves coming undone against him, his stuttered gasps ruffling the hair by Credence’s ear. 

_“Come,”_ he manages to order, voice sex-rough and urgent. “Percival, come, _I want to feel it—”_

And Graves obeys, and comes, a long, languid _sigh_ of release. He shudders, collapses, and curls into Credence’s chest; they lie there still, trembling together. 

* * *

“May I take the blindfold off?” Credence asks after some time, then adds playfully, “Sir?” 

Graves huffs a laugh. “Yes, Credence.” 

His smile, relaxed and unguarded in pleasure, is the most beautiful thing Credence has ever seen. 


End file.
